A Reversal of Roles: Hunter to Hunted
by liljimmyurine
Summary: The Predator race meets its match in a small group of Catachans and the Legion of the Damned


A Reversal of Roles: the Hunters to the Hunted

By: liljimmyurine

Disclaimer: I own neither the Warhammer or Predator franchises, and tip my hat to the geniuses behind them. All names and characters are mine. If you wish to use them, you need permission.

The ambush was amazingly orchestrated. Of the thirty men in Third Platoon, company twelve, of the 132nd Catachan Regiment, only half survived. They were sent to investigate an outpost that had reported an attacking force, unidentified, and then all contact was lost. Suspecting it to be nothing more than one of the countless dangers present on Catachan, which was classified a death world.

The only reason it_ was_ inhabited was that the planet was amazingly rich in resources: Promethium, Iridium, Electrum, the list went on and on. All factors of the Imperium of Man had something to gain from this planet. The Adeptus Mechanicus needed Electrum for the neural impulse links used in their god-machines, the Battle Titans, and the Imperial Guard needed iridium for use in armor for tanks and siege machines, and the entire Imperium needed Promethium; from flamers to vehicles, Promethium, and it's by-products, were used for everything; plastics, dyes, and even low cost food sources, it was needed everywhere, and it was in the planet Catachan in droves.

As a side effect, the colonists that inhabited such a hellhole became amazingly strong, resilient, and robust examples of humanity, considered some of the greatest troops fielded by the massive Imperium, their constantly perilous childhood honed their skills in a tougher environment than any Adeptus Astartes recruitment training world could imagine.

Thusly, even though the enemy had the element of surprise, camouflage that made them nearly invisible, and amazing weaponry, the outnumbered attackers, a mere five enemies, were killed, their neon-green blood staining the plants and ground as they were brought down. While most were shot by Guardsmen lucky enough to have bionic eyes upgraded with infrared sighting, one actually climbed up a tree with amazing speed, and stabbed the creature to death with his wickedly long combat knife, nearly the size of a machete.

When enemy reinforcements arrived, the Lieutenant rallied his remaining forces, and they ran for the cover of the outpost. The depleted platoon decided to attempt to seal the compound off. They separated into three teams of five; one led by Lt. Wolfe, consisting of him, armed with a Hellpistol and a Chainsword, two armed with lasguns, one armed with a combat shotgun, and one with a flamer, went to secure the southern blast doors. The second, led by Sgt. Luclus, who was actually considered the luckiest NCO in the regiment, who wielded a power sword and bolt pistol, two men with autoguns, a man with a lasguns, and Jeremae, who wielded the strongest handheld weapon in the platoon, a meltagun, capable of vaporizing nearly a meter of armor plating in less than a second, its only shortcoming its range, a few meters at best, was tasked with securing the Northern entrance. Team three, composed of Corporal Kell, armed with a Chainsword and laspistol, and the two heavy weapons teams: two men each, PFC Cloft and PFC Beckers, wielding a Heavy Bolter, and Privates Benz and Kane manning an Autocannon, were to set up in the main garage and hold the most securable position in the outpost; the Mess Hall.

Things could be heard through the wall of the base; the inhuman clattering of the predators outside, and the screams of Catachan swamp creatures, truly dangerous to even those aware of their presence, as they were killed for trophies.

For seventeen hours, the doors held at bay the creatures, and then they attacked. Maybe ten or twelve of the hunters entered the base, and headed straight for the garage. The Guardsmen were ready; eight of the creatures died in as many seconds as the Heavy Bolter and Autocannon hosed to two entrances to the 'command post' with indiscriminate fire. Heavy shells and explosive bolts tore into alien flesh, and the remaining four retreated, their active camouflage activating.

Rejoicing, the troopers didn't notice the faint movement on the ceiling; and if they had, it would have looked like heat shifting the air, that's all. Without warning, four troopers were killed, dragged into the ventilation shafts. PFC Jeremae turned the melta weapon towards the roof, and fired, killing one of their enemies in a rush of superheated gas, leaving a hole six feet in diameter in the ceiling. But the damage had been done; the band of fifteen was reduced to eleven in seconds. Lentz, the shotgun-wielding soldier, was furious; his friend Arcuda was one of those killed. As the lanyard of monomolecular wire had pulled him up, it had slit his throat, hitting Lentz with an arterial spray of blood. He, and three other insanely angry troopers, leapt into the vent shafts and crawled outside. As they charged into the open, the remaining eight men watched in horror as they were cut down by what looked like plasma fire.

Desperate, Lieutenant Wolfe took Kane's Vox-caster and sent out a distress call. Unfortunately, Garrison Command did not hear his call. But someone entirely else had.


End file.
